If you could read my mind
you’d uncover
a history of wounds and slights
dating back to the first.
Then again
you can easily see my sensibilities
by peeping my ride.

Each dent in my car
is a bruise upon my soul,
an itch in my heart.
I am left with broken parts of myself
visible somehow
only on Dorian Gray’s wheels.
They provide a secret glossary
of my pain and incidents,
where I’ve been
what I’ve done.

The car is worn and beaten
and in awful shape
and tells you more
than anything I might say about me
and if you ever get a chance
to get under the hood
don’t
but if you do anyway
I’m very sorry
and I swear it came that way.